Mind Palace Expansion
by the-bonny-wordsmith
Summary: Set in our world, but with dæmons and creatures from Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials, Sherlock is shown that there is a room in his mind palace that has been sorely neglected - an area of his life he had discounted; relationships. This isn't a Johnlock, but involves Sherlock and my OC; Ariadne. Inspired by the 'Blind Author's crossover fanfic 'The Republic of Heaven'
1. Chapter 1: Someone New

_Chapter One: Someone New_

Sherlock sighed as he peered down the microscope at the slide he was examining. He was bored out of his brains. No murders had happened, and nothing else that _had_ happened really warranted his attention. He hadn't heard from Lestrade for weeks, and even Mycroft seemed to have decided to have a break from irritating him. It was a sign of the degree of his boredom that he was almost half wishing that Mycroft _would_ appear, smugly irksome as usual, to attempt to bully him into taking a case (not that Sherlock would _ever_ have admitted this to his brother). He didn't even need to be at Barts for any case – it was just a distraction, and a very poor one at that.

It had been five years since the Moriarty affair; two since he had revealed himself to John. _Five years!_ The exhilaration and fear that it had generated had been enough to keep him going for several months, but then he had needed to get back into the business of testing his intellect. However, despite his own readiness to begin solving crimes once more there was his decimated reputation to deal with, and the fact that John had not been ready to know that he was still alive barely months after his supposed suicide. His patience had been severely tested, but it was for John. As to the matter of his recovered reputation, he preferred not to think about it, for he was sure that he owed Mycroft a favour regarding it – only Mycroft could have organised for the editing of both public and private data bases across not only the United Kingdom, but also the world.

Recently however, just when he was getting into the swing of things (and even John's blog had begun to re-establish itself back to its former prominence), cases fell flat. Of course _some_ people still came to him with their irritatingly mundane tales of woe, but he would never stoop so low as to taking one of _them_. He didn't leave the house for anything less than a seven, and most of the cases he had been approached with barely even warranted a rank. Sherlock sighed and considered returning to the flat and blackmailing John into Cluedo, or even the more desperate possibility of texting Lestrade a demand for involvement in a case. He shook his head; that was one level he was not willing to stoop to, but soon it would be at least a month since he'd had a decent case.

"We need more milk." He said to Raiserra absently, his eyes flicking momentarily towards his mobile where it lay on the table. The black European otter dæmon rolled its eyes, picking up instantaneously on her human's unspoken question.

"Of course he will." It was true, John never forgot things like that, and if he did, Histali would always remind him. Sherlock removed the slide with unnecessary venom, nearly cutting his finger on a chipped corner, hissing slightly as Raiserra whipped her tail about, her whiskers quivering. He unbuttoned and pulled up his sleeve and examined the quilt of nicotine patches along his forearm, wondering whether he was imagining that they weren't working or whether they really weren't. He'd been through two entire boxes already that week and it wasn't even Wednesday. He made a mental note to remind John to get some more, along with the milk. Patches, or not, however, he was on the verge of shooting up the wall of their flat again from sheer boredom he knew, and although John had become increasingly inventive with hiding his gun since the last dozen incidents – aided no doubt by Histali – Sherlock always managed to find it in the end, albeit with the help of Raiserra's sensitive nose.

Sherlock rubbed a crease between his brows angrily. If he couldn't find the gun this time, then he would just have to –

"No!" Raiserra's voice was irate, having followed the train of Sherlock's thoughts in the way that only she could. "The drugs make me act like a loon. No." Sherlock glared at his dæmon for a moment, then huffed, picking up the nearest slide and clipping it in with a sharp clack. He pressed his fingers together momentarily, steepling them against his chin. If he couldn't use the morphine or cocaine, then it would have to be the– "And _no_ cigarettes." Raiserra interjected adamantly. "We're not that bad yet." Sherlock glared at Raiserra.

"_I need stimulus, Raiserra!_" Sherlock spat, his face contorted with a mixture of fury at his dæmon's obstinacy, and desperation.

"Wear more patches." The dæmon fired back, expression seemingly unperturbed, although, she too was feeling the effects of the mind numbing boredom that inhabited her human, as well as the keen desire for action and intellectual challenge. Sherlock glared at the otter for a moment.

"Fine." He stormed sullenly. "But one more week, and I'm getting the cigarettes; I don't care what you say."

"Not when you've paid off all the dealers in a two mile radius around Baker Street to refuse you." Raiserra muttered.

* * *

Sherlock had been studying the new slide for only a few minutes, conversation between him and Raiserra having subsided into a testy deadlock, when an awed looking Molly pushed open the doors and led in a young woman that Sherlock was unfamiliar with.

He spared her the most fleeting of categorising glances; Sherlock had never had much time for people, especially not for females, and most of all not for _ordinary_ people. Had he been in a better mood, he may have dredged up an ounce of common cordiality, but he was still furious and battling the boredom that was slowly liquefying his brain.

She was pretty enough, he supposed, but pretty wasn't interesting. To be sure there was an innate roll in her hips as she entered that he knew would have attracted most men like bees to honey (contrary to John and Histali's beliefs he was possessed of awareness and knowledge of the chemical and physical attraction between people, although he chose not to indulge in such messy and unnecessary interaction himself), not to mention the generous curves of her figure, but other than that, she was quite ordinary. Sherlock sighed rudely.

Raiserra, who had flowed along the bench and up Sherlock's arm to settle like a heavy sleek black stole about his shoulders, was staring at the visitor intently, sniffing hard, their fuss temporarily forgotten.

"Where's her dæmon?" She whispered softly into Sherlock's ear, her whiskers brushing against his cheek. Sherlock glanced around, his interest piqued very slightly; if Raiserra couldn't see or smell the woman's dæmon then he certainly wouldn't spot it in the room.

"She may be a witch or simply a separated human," he murmured, his brain automatically supplying the facts that verified the rarity of either such occurrences. As the words left his mouth a slow muted thudding came to them. Sherlock glanced up, his eyes widening momentarily as they took in all the rattling glass and metal instruments arrayed about the room. An earth tremor? In _London_?

The young woman looked entirely unperturbed by the apparent seismic activity, and instead turned to the doors, holding one open, a now positively stricken looking Molly holding open the other, her rock ptarmigan dæmon Nalkin huddling inside her labcoat, his feathers already whitening for the coming winter.

Sherlock and Raiserra's eyes were trained on the door, narrowed in identical expressions of speculation. What came through the door shocked both of them enough that their eyes widened.

An enormous white bear, its head dipped low to allow it under the lintel of the doors, padded majestically in, its enormous slightly serrated black claws clacking against the floor. Its shaggy white pelt was thick, and its small black eyes swept the room, alighting on the pair and scrutinising them with an intensity that dwarfed even their own inspections. It was a panserbjørne; an armoured bear.

"Thank you, Molly." The young woman said, her tone rang with authority for all her youth, and it was an evident dismissal – albeit a kindly one. Molly seemed all too eager to flee, and practically ran from the room, not even pausing to pull the doors to. The young woman smiled towards the bear, both amused and apologetic at once to Sherlock's curiosity, then closed the doors. Sherlock frowned at the odd expression, then whipped back to the microscope, studiously disinterested.

It was not until all this was done that the young woman turned to face Sherlock for the first time. She moved forwards, gliding gracefully and effortlessly, the great bear at her side. Both man and dæmon's curiosity was piqued, although only Sherlock was concealing it. Raiserra had stretched to her fullest extent towards the woman and bear, her nose wrinkling as she sniffed deeply at the air, claws dug into her human's suit, her entire body coiled tense. The woman and her strange companion remained at the opposite end of the bench, as if aware that their presence was unwelcome, for all the interest they generated. Raiserra froze rigid after a few more moments, and was urgently kneading Sherlock's shoulder through his suit. The woman was too close now however for them to whisper unheard, so Sherlock ignored his increasingly agitated dæmon; besides which, the woman had begun to speak.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, I believe." The woman said, her eyes resting upon Sherlock, who was still resolutely staring down the microscope, the hint of a smile in her slightly aristocratically accented voice.

"As you see." Sherlock replied tersely. He glanced up and perfunctorily swept her up and down, taking in her well-groomed appearance, the ink stains on her right hand, the disciplined posture with which she held herself, and yet the relaxed stance. "Where is your dæmon?"

The woman did not seem at all put off by his total lack of conventionality or manners, or even that it was he asking after her dæmon and not Raiserra. She surprised him by laughing – a very John-like thing to do; Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Well, as _you_ see, he is right here." Her eyes flickered towards the panserbjørne, and Sherlock noticed a slight shift in her stance so that she was leaning towards her dæmon.

"That's what I wanted to tell you," Raiserra muttered sullenly into her human's collar. Sherlock barely registered his dæmon's sulky irritation, but instead turned his wide eyes on the woman's dæmon. At first he had intended only to inquire where and what her dæmon was, and why she had an armoured bear for company, then get rid of her. Now that he knew the panserbjørne to be a dæmon, however, the dying embers of his interest had been rekindled to a blaze, and the sheer size of the beast stunned him. It had to be the largest dæmon he had ever seen, for its head nearly brushed the ceiling, though it was standing on all fours, its great shoulders level with its human's head. Even in children playing games, it was uncommon for any of their dæmons to even attempt such a monstrous size. He wasn't even aware that it was possible for dæmons to take the form of a panserbjørne once settled.

Raiserra, apparently taking offence at being ignored by Sherlock, slithered down his arm, and crept swiftly along the table towards the bear dæmon, her nose working once more. Sherlock frowned slightly; Raiserra _never_ showed such marked interest in other people or their dæmons – regardless of how interesting they were – preferring to be as aloof and distant as her human; John was the one exception to this. The woman _had_ to be special.

The two humans said nothing, both of them watching their dæmons intently.

Raiserra stopped at the very edge of the tabletop, her forepaws wrapped around the edge of the table in a fierce grip, her neck stretched to its utmost towards the woman's dæmon. The woman and her dæmon exchanged a single glance, the giant bear blinking one black eye slowly before it turned to regard Raiserra once more, dipping its head so low that it was practically sitting, the end of its wet black nose rippling, a warm breath blowing out across Raiserra and ruffling her short dry fur.

Then, the great bulk of the armoured bear dæmon shifted slightly, compacting and tensing, the movement somehow threatening. Sherlock was barely allowed a moment of confusion in which his mind worked furiously to uncover why the moment was so unsettling, before everything was blotted out in a wave of terror as the bear leapt towards Raiserra. Just one paw would be enough to crush the now incredibly tiny and fragile looking otter, let alone an entire panserbjørne. Raiserra let out a terrified whistling and scrabbled back along the bench as if she could actually escape the heavy heaving bulk that was flying towards her, moving towards Sherlock, who hand automatically reached out to shield his dæmon.


	2. Chapter 2: Getting to Know You

_Chapter Two: Getting to Know You_

Then, in the blink of an eye, the bear was no longer there, and instead there were otters facing each other on the table, both black colour variants. The woman's dæmon was looking at Raiserra, its head tilted to one side, blinking extraordinarily long lashed eyes in a decidedly flirtatious and feminine manner. Raiserra, having recovered from her momentary fright, was hissing and chirring ferociously at the other dæmon from behind the comforting barrier of Sherlock's hand, the fur along her back raised, her fangs bared in an angry snarl.

For as much his own reassurance as Raiserra's, Sherlock rubbed his dæmon along her sinuous length, and although Raiserra continued to spit at the woman's dæmon, both felt the waves of relief that the contact produced.

Sherlock rounded on the woman, his heart still beating madly, about to demand an explanation of her. She had been regarding the two dæmons, particularly her own, with a somewhat amused (if resigned) expression. Upon registering Sherlock's furious scrutiny she turned and smiled apologetically, moving until she stood barely an arms-width from him, their dæmons between them on the table to their sides. He could smell a faint waft of a light fruity perfume.

"Sorry if Atalias frightened you two. I really can't apologise enough for his behaviour. He…has a bad habit of changing forms without warning." She glanced down at her dæmon once more, who had turned to glance teasingly over its shoulder, much as a coquettish woman might. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as, as if to prove the point, a pair of splendid but small wings sprouted from Atalias' black furred shoulders.

Raiserra, her curiosity overriding her irritation that she had actually been frightened by this strange dæmon slowly moved forwards, clambering over Sherlock's hand and sniffing the air along the edge of Atalias' right wing, but not touching him. Her human, however, turned his thoroughly scrutinising gaze upon the young woman.

She was dressed in a simple enough outfit of jeans, a dark blue wrap around top with long sleeves that widened at the wrist, over which she wore an expensive black wool trench coat, and a pair of rather startling heeled boots. Sherlock knew at once that the clothes were good quality, the coat and boots were severely expensive, and all kept in a pristine condition that belied their evident wear as he could see in the scuff marks on the shoes, and occasional catches in the fabric and weave of her shirt and coat. Clearly she was careful with her clothes, even though she evidently had sufficient money to regularly buy new ones at their full and most expensive price – as indicated by the slim rectangular bulge of her wallet, probably stocked with credit cards, from an inside pocket of her coat; very unusual given the materialistic standards of society, and her evident youth.

Her figure, although slim, curved substantially; her generous hips balanced by an equally abundant, and yet not oversized, chest. However, for all the slightness of her waist, there was a suggestion in the firmness and size of her denim-encased thighs and calves – both of which were too large for a conventionally slim person – that hinted at latent but honed muscular power. Her slim long fingered hands with well manicured nails were larger than the average woman's, but reflected their usage and strength, for all the smoothness of the skin. This was excepted by a pair of twin scars; each located in identical positions at where the wrist and her hand met, the only difference being that each sloped away from the other at a diagonal parallel to her thumb and pointing to her pinkie fingers. Again, the woman lacked conventionality, the strength of her body contrasting with her build and mode of dress.

Her entire body was devoid of adornment, save for a pair of jade bangles (one white and the other green) one on each hand which were visible beyond the end of her sleeves – which explained the oriental hint in her features –, and a set of large drop pearl earrings that dangled from shaped silver chains attached to small diamond studded hoops – again elaborating on her wealth, but also indicating a classical and slightly conservative taste.

Her balance, also, appeared spectacularly out of the ordinary, for she was wearing a pair of outlandishly shaped and toweringly thick-soled heeled boots. The back of leather-wrapped heel ought to have met the ground at the usual angle reserved for such shoes, but instead boomeranged in towards the front of the shoe before coming back out so that the woman's entire weight was balanced on the four-inch tall section of the sole that existed beneath the front of her arch and the ball of her foot. Her toes were capped in a scythe of suede that gave way to flowered black lace, which in turn was attached to shining leather that began at the back of her heel and ended at the knee after encasing the rest of her leg and shin in tightly laced leather, the holes of which were surrounded by a continuous rippling strip of suede. The very strangeness of the shoes tended to the impression that she herself had some eccentricities, the least of which were in her taste in shoes; a curious characteristic in one who seemed so unusually moderate, and even more so in a young person.

His observations had taken the work of a few moments, but Sherlock frowned, his eyes darting further up her body in his continued assessment. Her face was framed by luxurious black-brown locks that rippled someway down her back, Sherlock guessed, and rested in rich dark coils about her pale, swan-like neck and defined collarbones, a slight fringe shading part of one eye and a cheekbone. Her skin was pale, granted, but there was a different glow to it that he had rarely observed in members of the general populace or otherwise, and had seen most often in fine bone-china displayed in the windows of home-décor shops and expensive tearooms.

She was not a conventional beauty. Her eyes appeared drawn on her face, the details of their shape and lids almost perfunctory strokes of the brush of a minimalist artist, but their colour was as intriguing as her dæmon. They appeared to fluctuate slightly from a soft fawn to a dappled hazel, and had unusual hexagons of dark green forming a striped and many-pointed star-shaped pattern about her pupils. Sherlock found the patterns mesmerising, and it was not until they creased slightly in a smile that he realised he had been staring, somewhat vacantly into them for a few moments.

Instead, he turned his attention the rest of her face. Her nose was slightly squat, the nostrils flared and round, and Sherlock, limited as his knowledge of fashion trends was, knew that it was not the sort of nose that cosmetic surgeons recommended to their clients. Below her nose, however, were a pair of lips that, while generous, were not wide, but were certainly voluptuous. Sherlock's brow furrowed once more as he stared at the young woman's lips, not even noticing when their corners quirked in a grin as he determined whether their redness was a work of nature or artifice.

Having deduced that the shade was indeed their natural colour, Sherlock returned to himself and glanced up to find the woman staring at him just as intently as he had been staring at her, a slight smile pulling her cheeks up and crinkling her unusual eyes. He wasn't sure if anyone had ever really smiled at him in that way, and was not sure why she was. Sherlock turned back to the microscope, blindly removing the slide and putting another one on. Automatically he adjusted the various lenses, not seeing or thinking of what he was doing, but rather mulling over what his inspection had yielded, and the reason behind her smile.

True, he had scrutinised her in greater detail than he usually would – though it had only been for a few moments –, but she was _interesting_; as interesting as John and Histali had been – more so, in fact, for whilst wolf dæmons were uncommon, a dæmon that could change its form when it ought to have settled was unprecedented. His curiosity itched to discover the reason behind why her dæmon had not settled (despite the fact that she was obviously well past the time when he should have), and how it could change into forms that it shouldn't have – the panserbjørne for one, and as for growing wings at will; it was unheard of. An entirely scientific phenomenon. As far as he knew there was little likelihood that it would ever happen again. But _why_? Why had it happened to begin with? He puzzled over the thought for a moment, then turned to the slightly alarming fact he had discovered in his prolonged examination of the woman. He couldn't read her. He could deuce certain values and mannerisms from her clothes and behaviour, but her recent or extended past history remained hidden from him. It was just like _the woman_. What could have–

Sherlock's musings were interrupted by a polite cough, and he looked up to see the young woman regarding him with a vaguely amused expression, eyes twinkling.

"Yes?" He enquired with as much hauteur as he could muster; people never told you what you wanted if you appeared too interested.

"I would put in a slide that has actually been prepared, if I were you." She woman commented lightly, glancing pointedly at the slide he had loaded. Sherlock pushed the clamps off and inspected the slide. It was indeed a blank.

Hurriedly he put it to one side, and coughed, picking up another that was definitely prepared. A faint dimpling danced in the woman's cheeks. Sherlock, oblivious of her amusement, returned to examining the slide, and recommenced his train of thought.

As Sherlock continued his silent inner monologue, the young woman stood and waited patiently, regarding the eccentric consulting detective with amiable patience and a hint of amusement, her wicked dimples reappearing every now and then. Her dæmon, Atalias, shook his coat, and the wings and long eyelashes vanished. Raiserra, now prepared, if not used to the suddenness of the change, did not jump, but continued her own inspection of her fellow dæmon, disregarding its mirror image state to herself, her dark eyes narrowed.

* * *

It was not long before Sherlock, having concluded his thoughts at their usual screaming pace, turned his chair to face the woman before him, frowning slightly and staring at her assessingly, totally disregarding social etiquette as per usual. He had taken considerably longer than he usually would in considering a person.

"You're twenty-eight." He stated, the words sounding more like an accusation that anything else, and certainly not like a question. The woman's gentle grin widened, the dimples flashing out once again.

"Yes." She confirmed, apparently aware that Sherlock at once required and did not want her to do so.

"You've been through puberty." Sherlock continued, demonstrating a greater than usual lack of tact that John would have severely remonstrated him over had he been present.

The young woman, however, laughed. "Yes; many years ago." Sherlock frowned, thought for a moment, and turned to directly address Atalias.

"Why haven't you settled?" His nettled expression betrayed his irritation at having to ask for the answer; considering it to be equivalent to asking for help. The woman appeared entirely unoffended by Sherlock's direct address to her dæmon, but instead turned to watch him as he turned away from Raiserra and leapt at her arm, his claws digging into the weave of her coat sleeve as he clambered up to settle about her neck within the curve of her collar beneath the glossy fall of her hair.

Raiserra, appearing to have developed a nigh on obsessive fascination with Atalias, mirrored his movements, watching the dæmon's every move from her own identical place on Sherlock's shoulders.

Atalias rolled his shoulders for a moment, kneading at his human's shoulder. "We don't know. When we were younger we expected I would settle, but I never did. Our family was confused why, but we never went to see anyone about it – after all, there was nothing actually wrong with us." Sherlock's eyes flickered between the woman and her dæmon.

"But you show no signs of being ostracised from society." The woman's expression relaxed, having become somewhat set, and she laughed.

"That would be because we never were – at least, not because Atalias had never settled. We just pretended that he had. He always became a black panther whenever we went out so people would think nothing was out of the ordinary." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. A panther dæmon was not exactly ordinary, and while it she some light on this young woman's character, the illumination was minimal.

"Did your twin's dæmon settle?" He asked sharply; this much he _had_ managed to gather. The woman's face tightened for a moment, but her dæmon remained impassive, save for a twitch of his thick tail.

"My sister didn't live long enough for her dæmon, Antharlia, to settle." She replied, and although her tone was not curt, there was a certain clipped manner about her words. Sherlock nodded.

"Her gender was the same as her dæmon's, then?" He enquired, rising to new levels of tactlessness. The woman, however, took it in her stride, concealing the slight shade of the discomfort she had previously felt at the subject without any sign.

"Yes." She replied. "She was the older one." Sherlock nodded absently.

"Yes…I know." He murmured. Then his eyes cleared once more. "Had you begun to wonder about what you would settle as?" He addressed Atalias once more.

There was a pause as Atalias rolled his shoulders once more – his equivalent of a shrug – and appeared ready to answer, but was interrupted by the clap of the doors as John swung unceremoniously through them.

"Sherlock," he began as Histali padded in after him, "I got your text and I got here as fast as I –" His words died away as he noticed Sherlock's companion. "Oh." He turned, surprise plastered across his face. "Sorry; I didn't realise you were – that I was…erm…interrupting." He moved forwards and extended his hand. "John Watson, and this is Histali," he gestured to the oversized white wolf that was his dæmon. The young woman smiled graciously taking his hand with what Sherlock noted to be an unusually firm grip for a woman; John too had noticed, he could tell from the momentary surprised twitch of his eyebrows and the slight pursing of his lips, although throughout the exchange Sherlock couldn't help but curl his lip in disdain as John reciprocated the smile, his pupils dilating slightly.

"Ariadne Mordecai and Atalias; pleased to meet you." She replied politely. Sherlock judiciously filed away the information. Histali moved forwards, and Atalias dropped to the floor from his human's shoulder in a fluid movement. The two sniffed, Histali's bright gold eyes staring into Atalias's black ones, then briefly touched noses. Sherlock frowned, as did John. Histali usually reserved physicality in greeting for dæmons she liked, and never did so on first meetings. If the young woman had noticed their confusion however, she did not give any indication of it but continued speaking, addressing John with an easy smile. "Never mind the interruption. We weren't really having a proper conversation with Sherlock." John snorted, seeming to take Ariadne's use of Sherlock's name as an indication that they knew each other on some level other than barely-introduced-strangers.

"No…well…Sherlock tends to have inquisitions, rather than conversations." He replied, Histali whuffing through a doggy grin. Ariadne smiled, her dæmon baring its fangs in a grin from the floor. Sherlock's face froze and he glared at John as Raiserra glared at Histali.

"Yes, I think we could agree with you there." Ariadne replied, flicking a wicked grin at Sherlock, the dimples flashing out briefly again. He blinked, slightly startled at the expression, but ignored it.

"Contrary to what you may believe, I am possessed of ears." Sherlock cut in icily. The pair turned to face him, and as the woman smiled gently at him, Sherlock inexplicably found his irritation draining away. John moved closer, and glanced speculatively at the woman.

"I suppose you must get this a lot, what with your name, and everything, but you remind me greatly of –" John began, but Sherlock, his anger with his flatmate remaining, coughed pointedly.

"I expect you want to know why I asked you to come here." John frowned, but, noting his friend's sharpness, and the reflection it gave of his temper, made no comment.

"'With all possible haste' if I recall correctly," Histali amended soberly. John nodded.

"So what is it?" He asked. "Did Lestrade call?" Sherlock gazed at John for a moment, then turned back the microscope.

"I wanted to remind you to get more milk." John's eyes practically bugged out, and, but for Ariadne's presence, it was obvious from his expression that he would have indulged in the exercise of turning the air blue. Histali's eyes narrowed, and she vented her feelings via a peculiar coughing snort. Raiserra prodded Sherlock, who paused, then glanced up at the opposite wall. "Oh yes, and another dozen packets of nicotine patches." He added, returning to the microscope.

"Right." John replied, grinding his teeth. That being done, Sherlock removed the slide from the microscope, and faced Ariadne with what might have been alarming suddenness.

"How old were you when she died?" He fired at her. John gasped slightly at the rudeness, and Histali's ears went back, although unaware of the true depth Sherlock was plumbing, the fleeting nature of Sherlock and Ariadne's relationship dawning on them.

Unfazed, Ariadne replied, "Ten."

"Hmm." Sherlock turned away, his fingers steepled. John mouthed airlessly for a moment although a very slight rumbling of disapproval was emanating from Histali's chest.

"Sherlock!" He exclaimed when at last he had breath enough. Sherlock frowned, his pensive eyes moving to John.

"Don't interrupt, John." He remonstrated. John swore.

"Sherlock, you don't just ask people questions like that!" He turned apologetically back towards Ariadne and Histali's tail was between her legs. "I'm sorry; Sherlock's tactless with everyone." Sherlock was staring, slightly startled at John, Raiserra having taken her eyes of Atalias long enough to gaze bemusedly at Histali's subserviently apologetic behaviour. Ariadne smiled gently and waved the apology away.

"Don't worry; it's nothing. I've grown used to Sherlock's…directness."

"Oh please! Don't mind me!" Sherlock muttered, flinging his hands into the air before swivelling his chair and turning his back on Ariadne and John. John shrugged apologetically, and Histali wagged her tail in a conciliatory manner towards Atalias who reared up on his hind legs with a grin, his thick tail thumping amicably against the floor. Raiserra sniffed, and tucked her nose into Sherlock's collar.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, brows drawn together, then spun around and stared hard at Ariadne, who unflinchingly bore and returned his gaze.

"Why are you here and what do you do?" He finally asked. Ariadne regarded him fleetingly, her head tilted on a slight angle, and when she spoke it was slowly, the care with which she was choosing her words evident.

"Well…I…dabble in various areas; politics, the law, acting, various martial disciplines, conservation…" John's brows rose in polite interest. Sherlock seemed singularly unimpressed. Ariadne paused for thought. "It's all rather complicated." She smiled sunnily, expression apologetic, disregarding the incredulous expression Sherlock gave the microscope. John frowned and scratched his head, feeling a niggling revelation hiding from him in the back of his mind; he'd seen that smile somewhere before.

"The television," Histali prompted him. Ariadne's bemused eyes flickered between John and his dæmon.

"I'm probably completely wrong about this," he said with a slightly embarrassed smile after a moment's struggled recollection, "but are you related to the new prime minister? What's her name…? I mean, of course you're not her," he said with a laugh, "your dæmon's different." John paused and stared at Atalias, seeming to realise for the first time that he was an identical to Raiserra. He glanced questioningly at Sherlock and Raiserra who ignored him. John shrugged and turned back to Ariadne who was glancing down at Atalias with a peculiar expression.

"We have a new prime minister?" Sherlock asked, still staring fixedly down the microscope, Raiserra peering over his shoulder. John turned in exasperation to his friend as Histali grinned, her red tongue lolling out over her sharp white teeth.

"Do you actually pay no attention to the papers? It's been broadcasted everywhere – you _must_ have seen something about it!" John asked exasperatedly. Sherlock snorted.

"If I did, then I deleted the information. Besides, you know I don't watch _TV_ or read the papers; they're full of rubbish. It's extraneous data. Anything that doesn't help me solve the cases is just transport; I thought I made this clear to you on our first case together." John threw an apologetic and exasperated glance to Ariadne, his hands on his hips.

"And the fact that we have a new prime minister is extraneous data?" He asked.

"Yes." Sherlock changed slides without glancing up.

Ariadne glanced between the bickering flatmates, her expression amused – she and her dæmon exchanged identical grins. "Ah…Mycroft didn't tell you then." She said; it was a sentence calculated to interest. Instantly Sherlock's head snapped up, and John spun around.

"What didn't Mycroft tell us?" Sherlock asked shrewdly, his eyes narrowed.

At the same time John asked, "Not told us what?" Ariadne grinned at Atalias, her dimples on full display, who was baring his teeth in a similar fashion back at her from the ground.

As Ariadne turned back to the men, Atalias began to grow in size at an alarming pace, his white fur shortening and flushing to a brilliant tawny gold, his legs lengthening and becoming more muscular, and his tail thickening and growing longer. Finally a lion the size of a pony stood shaking its mane at Ariadne's side, by which time she had finished saying; "I _am_ the new prime minister."


	3. Chapter 3: An Unusual Alliance

_Chapter Three: An Unusual Alliance_

In response to Atalias' changing, Histali leapt before John, her teeth bared and her hackles raised, a low dangerous growl reverberating around the room. Sherlock's interrogative expression had become severely intrigued. John, however, was completely unprepared for Atalias' change, and had stepped back slightly, shocked, hands automatically moving to his waistband where his gun would have been, had it been on him.

"What just happened?" He asked, giving Atalias a wide-eyed glance before turning to stare in askance at Sherlock and Ariadne.

"Atalias hasn't settled." Raiserra answered automatically, her eyes fixed on the dæmon. John's brows furrowed, and in front of him Histali relaxed slightly, although her hackles remained raised, lips pulled back from her teeth – for in the form of a lion Atalias outsized her, unusually oversized as she was, and presented enough of a threat if he and his human turned out to be hostile.

"Is that even possible?" John asked. Sherlock did not even deign to reply, Raiserra rolling her eyes. John turned back to Ariadne, regarding her warily. "Why?" Ariadne shrugged as Atalias moved closer to the still cautious Histali, regarding her with eyes as yellow as her own.

"That is a question we have been asking ourselves since it happened." She replied as Histali finally relented, and touched noses with Atalias. Glancing up from the dæmons, Ariadne sighed briefly. "And now we must go." Sherlock frowned at the way she said the words.

"'We' being all of us?" John clarified. Ariadne nodded.

"Mycroft would have sent 'Andrea', but I wanted to meet you two, so I said I would; he seemed happy enough to oblige me." Her mischievous grin and dimples appeared once more. "Come on, then." John glanced towards Sherlock questioningly, expecting him to protest, or to at least ask why they had been summoned or where they were going. Sherlock, however, got up readily enough, stripping away the half dozen patches from his arm and flinging them into the bin with a fierce smile.

"Something exciting!" He murmured. Atalias smoothly changed into the panserbjørne form he had taken when they arrived, barely startling either John or his dæmon this time, as Sherlock pulled on his coat, gathering Raiserra in his arms from which she clambered up to his shoulders, settling about his neck.

John shrugged, Histali whuffing slightly, as they marched out on the tail of Atalias and his human.

* * *

Once outside John and Sherlock paused, glancing about to a taxi to hail, but there was very little traffic about, the road devoid of vehicles of any kind. The strip of parking spaces in front of St. Barts was deserted, except for an Aston Martin that was a shade of green so dark it appeared black.

Ariadne began making her way along the road, turning up her collar against a chilly wind that had picked up, and glanced back when she realised that Sherlock and John weren't following.

"Come on!" She called, Atalias having safely changed into the more inconspicuous form of a lynx when no one was watching and trotting at her side. "I'm driving." Sherlock and John exchanged a glance and began to follow.

"Where's your car?" John called over the wind, zipping up his jacket.

Ariadne stopped again, by now having drawn level with the Aston. She indicated it with her head. "This one." She said with a grin, pulling out a set of keys and pressing a button. The lights flashed, and there was a muted click as the doors unlocked. John gaped; Sherlock merely looked vaguely irked.

"It's…kind of expensive just to drive out here, isn't it?" John enquired as he opened a passenger door to let Histali leap in. Ariadne shrugged.

"I bought it a while ago; I like fast cars," she said with a wicked grin, "besides, this one isn't too flashy."

"'This one'?" John asked as he climbed in after Histali, the un-amused Sherlock having already entered from the other side with a roll of his eyes.

Ariadne was already in the front seat, her belt done up and Atalias, now in the form of a tamarin monkey, was clinging to the headrest of the empty front passenger seat, regarding the men and their dæmons around the side of the leather. Histali was sitting on the floor, leaning against John's legs behind Ariadne, whilst Sherlock, his arms folded, was behind the front passenger seat, Raiserra now in his lap. Ariadne's mischievous green eyes glanced up at them in the rear-view mirror. "I collect them." Her eyes disappeared for a moment, returning only after a muted roar of the engine as she started the car. "Hold on tight," she laughed, then pressed the accelerator.

~O~

"You know, for a prime minister, you drive rather fast," said a rather shaky John as he clambered out of the sports car outside 221 Baker Street. Ariadne grinned apologetically as she locked the car.

"Sorry. Normally I wouldn't, but Mycroft cleared the roads temporarily, so I thought 'why not?' Afterall," she continued as they let themselves in and made their way upstairs, "what's the point in having a fast car if you don't get to speed in it?" Sherlock passed a hand through his hair, his face slightly paler than usual.

"Why indeed," he murmured.

* * *

Upstairs they found Mycroft standing with his back to them, looking out the window, his raven dæmon Eredia on his shoulder. He turned around with an insincere smile. "Little brother. John." He greeted, then turned to Ariadne. "Prime minister." Sherlock ignored the courtesy as usual, hanging up his coat after depositing Raiserra on his chair, and John gave a terse nod, moving to sit at the table, Histali sitting bolt upright at his side. Ariadne, however, smiled, Atalias hanging off her lapel still in his monkey form.

"Mycroft; thanks for the clear." Mycroft's smile widened slightly, although his cold eyes remained isolated from the expression.

"My pleasure. Although I am afraid all racing will have to stay on courses now." Ariadne nodded regretfully.

"More's the pity. But…hey ho; you can't have everything."

Sherlock, who had deposited himself in a seat and taken up his violin, whipped the bow and set it against the strings, evidently intending it as a threat.

"Why are you here, Mycroft?" He asked, fixing his brother with a gimlet eye. Mycroft turned, eyeing the violin warily.

"I required a place free of potential bugs and spies to talk freely." He replied. John looked up from his laptop screen, surprised.

"So you came to Baker Street?" Histali asked his question for him, just as incredulously as her human. Mycroft's unpleasant smile returned, reading the inference Histali and John had made about his own security arrangements accurately. Eredia clacked her beak with vague irritation.

"As you see." Mycroft replied.

"And why do you need to talk freely?" Sherlock enquired with an air of professional boredom. Mycroft turned slowly, and regarded Sherlock with an expression of vague distaste.

"We require your involvement on a case." He said stiffly. Sherlock turned away and scraped tunelessly at the violin. "It's a long case, Sherlock," Mycroft continued when Sherlock had desisted, "and I dare say even you will be interested in it. Sherlock stared insolently up at Mycroft.

"What is it?" Mycroft and Eredia glanced pointedly at Ariadne, and Sherlock followed his gaze.

"It's like this," began Ariadne, sitting down opposite Sherlock in John's chair with Atalias now as a puma at her side, his head in her lap, one of her hands casually resting on his head and absently fiddling with his ears. "Ever since Moriarty blew out his brains we've been organising a scheme to discover who would be taking over, and any close subordinates; afterall, being the head of all organised crime has to be a coveted position. Five years ago we organised for information regarding policies and the support held by them to be copied and taken from all major parties running for government, and for the leakages to continue being fed to us since then."

"Without permission." John stated. Ariadne glanced at him.

"Just so." She replied solemnly. "With it, we formed a new party that contained all the most supported polices and ideals that we had taken from the other parties. Where policies that held large amounts of votes conflicted, we reformed them to have the best of both worlds, or ran with whichever was best. The result of this was the strongest party running for government in years." Ariadne glanced at Mycroft. "It has taken us a few years for the entire operation to get up and running on its feet, with the first couple of years acting as a dry-run to smooth out any kinks we might have missed."

"It wasn't until this year that the plan became fully operational, with the election of Ariadne as prime minister." Mycroft continued. John frowned.

"I'm sorry but I don't see how this will help you." He said, staring between Mycroft and Ariadne. Eredia clicked her beak impatiently.

"Ariadne is not merely a celebrity and celebrated conservationist that happened to become prime minister. First and foremost, she is an operative for the secret service, and as such, is a rare commodity in MI6." Replied Mycroft gravely. Across the room Sherlock's eyes flashed up to assess Ariadne once more. "She is probably our only agent who has a highly public identity, due to her…activities over the years." Ariadne grinned slightly at the faint trace of dissatisfaction that laced Mycroft's tone.

"Mycroft owes me a favour, and although he disapproves of what I'm sure he'd like to call my 'antics', he can't really get rid of me." Ariadne said, darting a mischievous glance at the poker stiff elder Holmes brother who was radiating strong waves of disapproval. Sherlock actually cracked a grin. Mycroft coughed delicately.

"They have not been without their uses, however." He murmured. "And with or without your…_antics_ MI6 still needs you." Mycroft cleared his throat and straighten his posture, addressing the men once more. "Ariadne was popular with the public before we began the campaign, and we needed her image to make the plan succeed. If she can meet with Moriarty's replacement, or someone close to them, then, using various…tactics, Ariadne will be able to make her way into their confidence by feeding them scraps of highly confidential information, giving the impression that she is actually corrupt, and willing to work with them. This in turn will allow us to learn more about the inner workings of their system, and eventually bring about their total removal." There was an expectant silence as John and Mycroft stared at Sherlock, who examined the strings of his violin, Raiserra curled in his lap.

"You want us to find out who Moriarty's replacement is." He said, still not looking up.

"We do have a list of people we suspect, but we require your…help." The last word stuck in Mycroft's throat.

"It hardly seems worth the bother," Sherlock said, letting a trace of disdain seep into his words. "Besides, I thought something as simple as this; even _you_ might have managed to deduce it." Mycroft smiled unpleasantly and Eredia couldn't restrain an irate shuffle of her wings.

"Oh _really_, Sherlock? I thought you would be leaping at a chance to exercise the grey matter, considering your recent…_inactivity_." Mycroft stressed the word delicately, studying his fingernails as his dæmon preened one wing. Sherlock's face snapped up and he locked eyes with his brother, both of them glaring. Raiserra hissed slightly from Sherlock's lap. Eredia gave a derisive and triumphant caw, ruffling her feathers, her chest swelling.

"Boys." The soft chiding murmur issued from Ariadne's grinning mouth, her green eyes twinkling roguishly, though her smooth dark eyebrows were raised expectantly. Both men were startled out of their contest of wills to gaze in affronted surprise at the prime minister. Their dæmon's too were shaken out of their opposition, and gazed blankly at the unusual interruption. Atalias' mouth was stretched in a wide and fearsome grin, displaying all his white sharp teeth. John had to stifle a snort of laughter, whilst Histali covered her head with her forepaws in an attempt to prevent herself from laughing. "We all know Mycroft doesn't do fieldwork," Ariadne said softly, "and we all know that Sherlock needs cases. For all your disparity as siblings; you both require the other on a professional level at least." Ariadne swept to her feet in a smooth flowing motion. Everyone in the room knew the matter had been settled. "There is an affair we need to attend to this evening," she continued, walking to the door with Atalias slinking along at her side. She paused, gazing evenly at Sherlock and John, her eyes slightly narrowed in an assessing, calculating glance, which Sherlock analysed. "I will meet both of you at your mother's home; Mycroft will fill you in on the details." She flashed a brief smile around the room, then glided out, her hips rolling. They all remained where she had left them, standing and sitting, listening for the sound of the front door shutting, then the slam of the car door, and the roar of the engine.

John slowly turned to face the Holmes brothers. He swallowed and Histali wagged her tail a little.

"Well…she's quite some woman." He said eventually. Sherlock and Raiserra's eyes were still fixed on the door, glazed over. Mycroft abruptly sat, Eredia taking off and landing on the table, ruffling her black plumage.

"Yes, she is." He said, his eyes as preoccupied as Sherlock's. "And she's our prime minister." He murmured, almost uneasily. John let out an uncomfortable laugh.

"Not quite what you're used to dealing with, Mycroft?" He asked.

Mycroft's brows twitched upwards as he stared at his umbrella, spinning it slightly. "Indeed." He murmured. Raiserra slid out of Sherlock's lap, clambering up onto the arm of his chair, where she proceeded to sit and scrutinise Eredia, who was nonchalantly preening her feathers and ignoring her fellow dæmon. Sherlock broke out of his lethargy, and snapped about, whipping his bow as he strode over to the mantle piece.

"What are these details, what is this 'affair', why do we need to be there, and why are we meeting at Mummy's? I want information, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice was as hard as his calculating eyes. Mycroft, unruffled once more, smoothed down his suit and regarded his brother. Eredia fluttered back to his shoulder and proceeded to ignored Raiserra and her human completely, although she watched the rest of the room alertly.

"You and John will be accompanying Ariadne to an event we have organised for the Mayor of London to host; Ariadne will have all your invitations with her when you meet her at Mummy's. It's black tie, and tuxedos will be provided for you to change into, again at Mummy's. You will be there to assess people, Sherlock." Mycroft's expression had become unusually clear of the vitriol it usually possessed when he regarded his brother, and he stood. "Ostensibly it is a gala dinner, but we have ensured that all our suspects were added to the guest list. We believe Moriarty's replacement, or at least, a representative of the replacement, will be attending tonight. There are files," he indicated a stack of manila folders on the desk with the tip of his umbrella, "on all our suspects, as well as a list of all the other guests attending." Sherlock barely spared the pile a glance, but John wandered over and idly leafed through a couple of the files.

"Why are we meeting at Mummy's?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft paused, staring at his brother for a few moments.

"Ariadne and Mummy are acquainted." He replied stiffly. Eredia shuffled her wings slightly, her feathers puffing up slightly. Sherlock frowned slightly, and Raiserra thumped her thick tail slightly. Mycroft gazed solemnly at his brother. "You do realise the importance of this evening, Sherlock." He stated, holding Sherlock's gaze unflinchingly. His brother's eyes narrowed briefly, then he nodded seriously. Mycroft stepped back. "Good." He nodded once, his gaze covering all four occupants, then proceeded out of the room.

It was not until the front door slammed for a second time, that Sherlock's eyes began to dance with an expression that was known all to well to John and Histali. Raiserra was trembling with excitement, writhing about on Sherlock's chair. Sherlock gave a great leap in the air, accompanied by an uncharacteristic whoop of delight.

"This is _perfect_, John!" He cried, spinning around the room. "A proper case at last!" John sighed as he sat and leant back in his chair, his hand resting on Histali's head. It was something of a relief to know that Sherlock and Raiserra would be occupied once more, and that he would not have to continue to hide his gun, but it did mean, inevitably, that he and Histali would be dragged around and across London, perhaps even the entire country, as well as be subject to sleep and food deprivation until the case was solved. He restrained a slight groan. Mycroft had assessed it to be a long standing case, which meant that, even for Sherlock, it would not be over in a matter of days or even weeks. Histali gave him a consoling lick on the hand. With a grunt he heaved himself off the chair.

"I'm making tea," he muttered.


	4. Chapter 4: Preparations and Mummy

_Chapter Four:__ Preparations and Mummy_

Sherlock spent the rest of the day in a state of high elation, and put the time to good use. He commandeered John's help into reading all the files that Mycroft had left, and then furthering the information through his own investigations. Before all else was to be attended to, however, Sherlock, using John's laptop as his own was in his bedroom, conducted a thorough internet sweep on Ariadne, Raiserra standing on his lap, her forepaws on the table between his hands. All that both had said about her was true, according, not only to Wikipedia and IMDb, but also the half dozen fan sites that Sherlock could bear to trawl through, and those official sites that had been set up in relation to her conservation, law and acting activities, as well as her prime ministership. None mentioned Atalias's ability to change, and, unusually, there was very little to be found about her family.

Several of the suspects Mycroft had listed Sherlock instantly removed with various snorts of disgust and disdain, whilst others he reviewed and furthered his knowledge of. Some of the civilian guests were added to the list of suspects as well, and their backgrounds thoroughly researched.

* * *

At five o'clock the doorbell rang, and Sherlock and John, accompanied by their dæmons made their way downstairs to the sleek black car that was waiting for them.

For once they were unaccompanied, save the driver, and in almost no time at all they had left London and had passed through the wrought iron gates to the Holmes' ancestral property.

The mixed pebble drive crunched beneath their feet as they got out of the car, and made their way up to the imposing front doors. John and Histali, who had never even heard tell of this place, let alone met the infamous "Mummy", were in awe, stunned by the sheer size of the mansion that they now stood before. Sherlock and Raiserra seemed as severely composed as ever, Sherlock buttoning up his jacket as he exited the car, and pausing to smooth back his curls with one pale long-fingered hand as he moved up the steps to the doors, barely batting an eyelid at the ornate fixtures of the building, while Raiserra only pawed at her whiskers a little.

John was not prone to self-consciousness, but he couldn't help smoothing his hair a little, and wishing that he might at least have been given some forewarning by his flatmate.

They had barely stopped before the great double doors, when they opened, and a beautiful woman stepped out and enfolded Sherlock in a hug with a cry of delight. Her long straight hair was loose and raven black, almost with a bluish sheen to it, and her slim figure was fetchingly clad in a smart bronze dress that somehow set off her mulberry coloured eyes as though they were in spotlights.

"Sherlock!" She cried affectionately, embracing him warmly. "It's been so long!" John was surprised to see Sherlock reciprocate the clasp of her arms, having expected him to recoil. Histali, however, was not so surprised, having scented a similar smell on the woman as that on Sherlock and Mycroft, and assumed their blood-relationship. Both man and dæmon, however, were wondering why neither Mycroft, nor Sherlock had ever mentioned that they had a sister.

By the time Sherlock had been released, John had recovered his composure, and smiled as the woman moved to greet him, smiling pleasantly. "You must be John, and Histali." She said warmly at both and shaking John's hand.

"John, Histali; this is Mummy." Sherlock said formally. John's eyes widened with surprise, and Histali gave a small yelp.

Sherlock's mother laughed, however. "Call me Veriana. I would introduce you two to my dæmon Polithus, but he's away at the moment." John and Histali allowed themselves to be ushered in as waves of surprise cascaded over them; this was Sherlock's mother, yet she looked barely thirty; her dæmon was away; and she behaved nothing like either of her sons. She was a witch. John and Histali had worked with some witches during the war – although for the main part they had kept themselves to themselves in their own battalion separate from the humans, aware of the dislike they tended to engender in them, though John and Histali had no qualms with them; they would fight and die, just like any other soldier. Once they had realised the truth of the matter, they were completely at ease with Veriana; besides which, it explained a few things about Mycroft and Sherlock.

Warm and welcoming, Veriana quickly brought John, Sherlock and their dæmons in over the threshold and into the enveloping warmth of the wood panelled front hall. It was quite delicious, for the night air was distinctly chilly with a sharp nip to it. John only hoped that their night's activities wouldn't involve chasing criminals through London's backstreets.

They took off their coats, and Veriana ushered them out of the front hall and through a side passage into a spacious and comfortable lounge, although because of its styling John felt it would have been better called a parlour or drawing room. There was a large carved marble fireplace at the opposite end of the room, and the various items of furniture were more often than not upholstered with velvet and thoroughly antique looking. Sherlock flopped down across a chaise lounge, Raiserra leaping down from his shoulders and curling up on a plump velveteen cushion with a little squeak of delight. Veriana's eyes twinkled at the sight.

"I'm sure you thought I would have forgotten your cushion, Raiserra," she said, smiling. Raiserra did not reply, but squirmed into the cushion with a pleased whistle. Sherlock made a slight face at the spectacle his dæmon was creating, but chose to attempt to ignore it, instead reaching an impossibly long arm out to the round table beside him and taking the metal box that sat on it. Transferring this to his lap, John watched as Sherlock opened the box, his face set with an expression of intense anticipation, then grinned as he viewed the contents.

John and Histali could only gaze in utter astonishment as Sherlock began eating the contents of the box with what was obviously meant to be an attempt at dignified gusto.

"Sherlock's always had a weakness for dark chocolate made by our sisters in Spain." Veriana said to John, laughing as she caught his stunned expression. "Please, sit." She gestured graciously towards the array of chairs, and together man and dæmon moved over to an armchair. "Tea?" She asked as he sat, moving over to a table against the back wall, atop which sat a splendid silver tea service. John nodded.

* * *

"So," John said, once he and Sherlock had finished their tea and several biscuits, "what do we do now?" Veriana smiled from where she stood by the fire, stoking it.

"Ariadne should be arriving soon in the car that will take you all to this gala. In the meanwhile, she sent a pair of evening suits ahead for you two to change into for when she arrives. They're upstairs – John, yours is in the first room on the right."

Without hesitation, both men stood and retreated upstairs, which was just as grand as the lounge and front hall had been. Everywhere there were wood panels or thick embossed wallpaper, and the walls were hung with various paintings and rich tapestries. John and Histali felt a little out of place, though Sherlock and Raiserra were just as blasé as ever, and the vague discomfort only increased when they entered the guest room – if it could be called that.

A grand four poster bed hung about with red velvet curtains with carved posts and headboard took up a small area of the vast room, standing on a small dais. A silk brocade chaise lounge stood against the far wall at the edge of a silk Turkish rug, on either side of which were a pair of large bay windows complete with gold velvet curtains drawn to reveal cushioned window seats and darkness beyond. A writing desk and chair stood against the wall the door was set into, and a capacious Edwardian wardrobe stood facing the foot of the bed. In the corner between the left window and the wardrobe there was another door that Histali padded over to, poking her head in. She wagged her tail.

"Green marble everything, John!" She said enthusiastically, her voice echoing sufficiently for John to guess the bathroom was just as big as the room itself. "And gold taps."

John walked dazedly over to the edge of the bed's dais, and idly fingered the protective cover that encased the suit, which was laid out over the covers, a pair of highly polished black shoes in the corner. "Well, it's certainly something, eh, Histali." He said with a slight laugh as his dæmon joined him.

"Nothing like the war, or the flat." She agreed. John laughed properly at that.

"I can see where Mycroft gets his taste in décor, though." He said. "Just imagine being a kid growing up with all this," he sat on the edge of the bed, Histali's head on his knee, idly running a hand through her fur as he thought. Oddly enough he could picture Sherlock as a little boy with an unruly mop of dark curls, rushing around the house in shorts with scabby knees, a pirate's hat on his head and brandishing a wooden sword as he laid siege to Mycroft's bedroom. In a strange way, the grandeur of the house was very much in keeping with Sherlock, and in another way, utterly incongruous.

John shook his head with a laugh, and began to dress.

* * *

Sherlock strolled downstairs, hands in his pockets wearing the perfectly fitting evening suit and white dress scarf with the same attractive indolence as he wore his suits; it sat perfectly on him. Raiserra, wound round his neck, was chittering away in his ear.

"Her eye is as good as ours, you know." She said. Sherlock nodded. The moment he had put on the evening suit he knew his deductions about Ariadne's parting glance had been correct – as he had been sure they would. How she had managed to have two perfectly tailored evening suits ready in six hours was more incredible.

Sherlock strolled into the lounge once more, where Veriana appraised him with a mother's eye. She smiled and nodded approvingly. "You look very smart," she paused, then turned and took a small brush out of a box on the mantel piece. "Raiserra?" She asked. Sherlock nodded as his dæmon let out a shrill chirring whistle of pleasure, taking the brush and sitting in the nearest chair, Raiserra circling in his lap with impatient anticipation.

He was still brushing her when John and Histali came in, John looking a little self-conscious, though Histali was dancing along by his side, her tongue hanging out. John stopped in the doorway a little awkwardly. "Well?" He asked, his eyebrows raised.

"You look marvellous!" Replied Veriana with genuine warmth. "Does Histali want a brush down?" She indicated Raiserra, who was still happily gargling in Sherlock's lap as he brushed her. Histali's mouth, already in a large grin, widened even more so that all of her teeth were on display.

John let out a laugh, and nodded. "If you have a spare brush."

* * *

The men and their dæmons were only just finished when the door knocker sounded. Veriana left to greet the guest, and after a few moments filled with the muffled sound of feminine voices in the hall, during which Raiserra prodded Sherlock into sharing his chocolate with John, the doors opened again, and Veriana returned, Ariadne and Atalias sweeping in behind her.

She grinned at the sight of them. "Well don't you two polish up nicely," she said with a laugh. Ariadne was quite something to look at herself. She was clad in a floor length white fur coat that completely obscured whatever it might be that she wore beneath, the fibres of which were pearled with water droplets, as was her hair, which was simply elegant, with some waves and curls blow-dried into it and retrained on one side with a glittering hair pin. "I'm afraid it's raining outside, but the car is near the door, so we should be fine."

There was a slightly awkward silence. John's brain was still stuttering from her appearance, and Histali, lying on the ground, had covered her snout with her paws to prevent herself from laughing at her human.

Sherlock was rapidly cross referencing her appearance now with that of earlier in the day, finally coming to the gratifying conclusion that she had made as little effort then as she had now to look in any way outstanding, and that the result was scintillating. Raiserra's attention was given over solely to gazing at Atalias, who, in his lion form, was more than magnificent, and was analysing his every movement.

"Shall we?" Ariadne asked with a slight smile, indicating the door.

* * *

The car was a standard limousine, and as it rolled smoothly out of the driveway and back towards London, Sherlock relaxed. It was a case, just like any other, but with higher stakes. He was in his element once more.


End file.
